Apprehension
by causidicus
Summary: NOTE: THIS STORY HAS MOVED TO ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN (ao3). The story title ("Apprehension") and my username ("causidicus") are the same. Please re-read from the beginning as it has changed substantially! Summary: Sherlock inadvertently deduces John's been wanking to a photo of him. The discovery begins affecting his behaviour in ways he can't quite understand or control.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the couch as John typed on his phone.

"I need one," Sherlock mumbled to himself, fisting his hair with both hands. He picked up the Union Jack pillow and tossed it up and down a few times before punching it at John, who ducked without comment.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked, hands clasped behind his back.

"Nothing."

Sherlock looked over at him. "You were in a bad mood this morning; not like you for a Saturday."

"Do not start on this, Sherlock," John said under his breath.

Sherlock stopped directly in front of him and stared. "You slept only a couple of hours."

"Anderson could've beat you to that one," he said, frowning down at his phone.

"You were fretting over a girlfriend."

John froze.

"It would have to be someone new, because you haven't been sending inordinate texts on your phone lately and I haven't seen any dreadful poetry in your emails." Sherlock spoke to the wall and resumed pacing. "You haven't had on your date shoes or fussed over your hair, either. So not a girlfriend." He glanced at John's face then looked back at the wall. "You haven't asked her on a date yet or even contemplated doing so. Why? Someone you shouldn't be attracted to. Too young? No, no." Sherlock waved his hand distractedly. "But there is guilt." Sherlock looked directly John again, who remained ramrod straight on the couch with a blank expression. Sherlock smirked down at him. "It's someone I know."

For a second John's eyes shifted to his laptop.

Sherlock snatched the computer off the table before John could lunge for it. "Let's see who Ms. Forbidden Fruit is," he said, waking up the screen.

"Sherlock, Sherlock no." Sherlock heard actual panic in John's voice. This was going to be funny.

"Oh, come on." Sherlock held computer over his head, fending off John as the screen loaded. "You know I'd find out sooner or lat-"

A photograph of himself stared back at him from the laptop.

Sherlock's comment died in his throat. Heavy silence settled over the room.

When Sherlock looked away from the screen, John had already grabbed his keys and wallet off the table and was pulling on his jacket.

"Go fuck yourself, Sherlock," he muttered before he slammed the door.

Sherlock stared at the closed door for a second before he caught sight of the photo of himself again and swallowed.

He slammed the laptop shut and pulled a bag of right toes out of the fridge.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock yawned and looked over at the clock on the stove. It was 4:37 am. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head before he wandering into his room, shedding all of his clothes and falling into bed.

_John didn't come back _was his last thought before he slipped from consciousness.

Around noon the next day Sherlock adjusted his sheet as he dipped a spoon into the little sugar canister on the counter, frowning when it clanged against the sides. He leaned over to look inside the little pot. Nothing, not even a dusting left. He turned to look again at his full mug of tea.

"John," Sherlock called. John didn't answer.

Sherlock wrote a quick text to buy sugar and put his phone back on the counter. He stared at his mobile a moment then picked it up again, scrolling through his texts to John. He'd already asked John to get the sugar, twice.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He called. No one answered. _Back on with the baker. Tedious._

The tea really was atrocious without sugar. He angrily pulled on trousers and a shirt and hastily tied his scarf before walking out the door.

He arrived back at 221B in a foul mood, aggressively disgusted by the Commonwealth.

"John!" He called out again. John didn't answer. He opened the fridge and retrieved the same bag of toes, slamming it shut so hard that it popped back open again without Sherlock's notice.

The next afternoon Sherlock woke up and nearly gagged. Botrytis cinerea, Erwinia carotovora, Rhizopus, Alcaligenes. He walked into the kitchen without his sheet and cursed loudly at the open refrigerator door.

He attempted to boil the kettle, but wretched almost continuously until he gave up and went back into his room to dress, seething. Before he left for St. Barts, he opened the not-cold refridgerator and scanned its contents, settling on a bag of tongues and dumping them over John's mug in the sink.

* * *

Sherlock was holding a fresh John Doe's heart when his mobile rang later that day; it clanged in the weight pan as he snapped off his gloves and dug into his pocket. He experienced an unprecedented pang of disappointment when he read the name on the screen.

"Lestrade."

He listened to what sounded promising and hung up with a muttered "yes" without mentioning how busy he was.

He caught sight of John's name in the caller ID from two days ago as he gathered his things to leave. Something heavy creeped over him as he shrugged on his coat.

* * *

"Where's Doctor Watson?" Donovan was smirking at him. Sherlock said nothing as he walked past.

"Lover's quarrel?"

Sherlock whipped around. He wanted to tell her that bit of cat fur clung to Anderson's leg, and that his hair smelled like artificial passion fruit. Donovan did not have a cat nor did she use passionate fruit shampoo. Neither did Anderson's wife. He'd add that a lover's quarrel was impossible between her and Anderson because it suggests that the love was requited-

Donovan looked nervous.

Sherlock frowned - had he already said something out loud?

Lestrade caught his eye and motioned with his head to the body on the floor. Sherlock turned away from Donovan and snapped on his gloves.

* * *

A disappointing twenty-four hours later, Sherlock sat in the window booth at Angelo's observing the foot traffic outside. His phone was under his hand next to his plate.

_Publisher. Barrister. On his way to see his mistress. On his way to the liquor store_. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled, moving his hand to the side for a moment to glance at the screen.

On his way home Sherlock texted "where are you?" to John, then deleted it.

When he arrived back at the flat he froze, sniffing the air once before taking the stairs two at a time to John's room. _Not here, but just left._ He paused in the doorway, scanning the bed, the table, the chair. He walked over to his chest of drawers and opened all of them, cataloguing their contents. T-shirts, jeans, and jumpers were missing.

Sherlock's ears went numb.

Nothing askew. No ruffles in the fabric. No drawers half-open. Inference: John acted deliberately.

He closed the drawer carefully and walked into the bathroom. Toothbrush, razor, deodorant all gone.

Something was cutting him inside of his throat. He wanted to rip it out.


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later Sherlock spoke in a shaking voice to an idiot nurse on the other end.

* * *

When John walked into Sherlock's examination room at the surgery he paused.

"Afternoon, Doctor." Sherlock was still in his coat, legs swinging on the exam table.

"What is it?" John was angry. Nervous.

"I need your medical opinion." Sherlock was reasonably certain John could solve the scenario he'd imagined with moderate effort.

"Ask Anderson." John turned around to leave.

Sherlock felt the thing in his throat again. "You haven't been at the flat."

John turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. "How would you know, you don't even notice when I'm gone for days at a time."

Sherlock shifted on the exam table. "We're out of sugar," he said, deadpan.

John didn't smile.

"I sanitized your mug," Sherlock muttered after a moment.

John made a noise of disgust. "Sherlock that was vile, I'd rather you toss it or use it for an-"

"Thought you might say that," Sherlock interrupted him, digging in his coat pocket. He tossed him a white mug that John barely caught.

He looked down at it, surprised, then scowled. "It says "Crazy Cat Lady."

It did? He hadn't noticed. Not good. 'Not good.'

Sherlock looked up at John but he didn't look angry anymore. He was rubbing his eyes and he held his bad shoulder closer to his head. Tired. He hadn't looked tired when Sherlock observed him in the waiting room.

He remembered the half-empty drawers without meaning to recall them.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair; unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock recalled why for a moment before he viciously suffocated the thought.

"Can you pick up the right kind of sugar on your way home to the flat?" Sherlock asked.

"The right kind?"

"I bought the wrong kind. It's repulsive."

John stared at him. "I'm leaving for Harry's today, going to be gone for a week."

Oh.

"She got out of rehab recently. Going to uh-" He waved his arm and looked away for a moment. Sherlock fought the urge to tell him she likely had stores of liquor hidden where he would never find them and that visiting would only make her more likely to reach for them.

_Half-empty drawers._

"Hope your sister is well." He could barely say it without clenching his teeth

"Thanks," John said in an odd tone.

Sherlock pressed his lips together then turned to go.

"I'll see you when I get back," John said behind him.

Sherlock shut his eyes tight with his hand on the door knob.

* * *

_2 days later_

Sherlock stared at his phone for a moment.

**How's it going? S**

**My god, small talk? I'm scared to see what you've done to the walls.**

Sherlock smirked.

**No clients?**

**Obviously not. S**

John didn't text him back. Sherlock stared at the phone longer. He put it down then turned on the telly, turning it off moments later without so much as a word to the contestants.

He looked over at his beakers bubbling on the stove. They wouldn't be ready for another three hours.

He felt the vestigial pull to text the people whose numbers he'd long ago deleted. Of course he knew where to go now, but you hardly had to be Sherlock Holmes to know that. He squashed the thought – "not good."

Like Harry - Sherlock imagined she was a bit not good. He wondered if John would decide to stay with her longer than a week. Especially because-

Sherlock swallowed.

He'd avoided processing the incident. He could almost delete it, but not quite.

* * *

_Sherlock's fingers are in John's hair. He is wearing the ear hat but somehow there's still a lot of scalp that Sherlock can touch._

_"I like it," Sherlock says._

_John is staring at him, unaffected. Sherlock's stomach curls, drops._

_He runs his fingers over the backs of John's ears._

_"You do huh?" John said, a half-smile softening his face for a moment. Sherlock could see the different pigments in his skin from this close._

_He tries to tell John yes, he does, but his insides coil tighter and he cannot speak._

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes to a nearly dark flat. He lifted his head off the kitchen table, wiping drool off of his mouth and feeling now-uncommon tightness in his pyjama bottoms

Sherlock shifted in his seat a little, rubbing his knees together. _Too advanced._

Hesitantly Sherlock stuck his hand in pyjama bottoms and closed it around his erection, mouth dropping open. He gripped the edge of the table and fisted himself almost violently, biting his lip and clenching his teeth together-

_The photo_. He gasped, stuttering, then bowed over the surface of the table until his chest was only a few inches above it. _John gagging to fuck him_. He came into his hand and on the bottom of the kitchen table, groaning.

An involuntary and chemically induced lightness had relaxed the muscles on his face and in his shoulders but he remained hunched over. Swallowing, he reached for a dish rag and cleaned himself and the bottom of the table before throwing it on the ground and pouring himself another mug of coffee.

* * *

The next afternoon Sherlock stepped on the dish rag.

He picked it up and put it in the trash, pressing it down farther and farther until he was literally up to his elbow before letting it go. He stood up and stared at the rubbish bin for a moment longer before sitting down at the table.


	4. Chapter 4

**Do we need anything else besides sugar?**

Sherlock read the text and smiled _John coming back today_ before looking around the kitchen.

Paper plates with fingers and fingernails littered the counters and the table.

Sherlock glanced up towards John's empty room and began stacking the paper plates until they were one teetering pile, which he moved to a corner of the counter and then opened the window wide. On impulse, he put the kettle on.

He heard John climbing the stairs and sat down at the table, looking into his microscope. The floorboards squeaked as John rolled his suitcase across the wood floor in the living room.

"Did you..." John stopped in view of the kitchen. "The kitchen looks clean."

Sherlock bristled. He regretted stacking the plates.

"Did you make tea for me?" John asked incredulously, walking towards the kettle. Before Sherlock could answer, "Jesus, you did."

Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge ask about John's sister, when he knew the answer would not be a good one nor pleasant for John to talk about. But that impulse faded when John sat down across from him, stirring two spoonfuls of the right sugar into the second mug while sipping from his own. He slid the doctored tea to the center of the table for Sherlock, Sherlock feeling crushing relief as he leaned over to grab it.

His hand brushed against something dry and crumbly on the underside of the table. He froze.

Sherlock's eyes darted to John's to see if he'd noticed, but John was already engrossed in the paper, and never noticed anything besides. He sat carefully down and took a sip.

"Right sugar?" John asked, still staring at the paper.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Thank you," he added after a moment.

John smiled very faintly at the sports page and handed a section over to Sherlock, thumb marking a story about a triple homicide.

Sherlock stared at it and felt a childish urge to beg for John's forgiveness.

Clearing his throat, he put down his mug and took the paper, tightness lingering in his chest.

* * *

Sherlock solved the triple homicide in three days, which bothered him, as it should have taken one. Sherlock and John stood still in middle school teacher Philip Bryan's basement, surrounded by a collection of bodies in various stages of decomposition, Philip himself being the most recent addition.

Sherlock saw Lestrade walking towards him with a pen and paper and waved him off, promising to brief Lestrade tomorrow. He put his collar up against the wind when they stepped out into the street.

"Brilliant, Sherlock."

"You think so?" He asked, before he realized what he said.

John stared at him with furrowed brows. Sherlock turned away to wave down a cab before John opened his mouth.

At Angelo's, John smiled a lot at their waitress. Sherlock saw her write something on their ticket, glancing once at John. He handed her his card before she could put it on the table.

* * *

The next case was the recovery of a young boy who was taken while in the care of his mother and aunt. Once they found the motel room where the boy's father had hidden him, the aunt arrived shortly after the police, crying and hugging a surprised Sherlock and a happy John.

The next week the aunt showed up to 221B with a bottle of wine and plastic tupperware full of something heavy and still warm. Sherlock accepted it wordlessly in his bed sheet. John came to the door and gave him a look, and Sherlock turned around and walked back to the living room to sit on the couch. Out of the corner of his eye he watched aunt's hand slide up and down John's arm and felt a touch of numbness. He pulled out his laptop.

"I'll see you later," John said over his shoulder as he shut the door.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. When the door shut he stopped typing, staring at the wall before making his way to the fridge to retrieve a few vials from the crisper. He didn't put tupperware into the fridge.

John arrived back at the flat at 11am the next morning in the same clothes he'd worn the day before.

"Case?" John asked, pouring himself a mug of tea and walking behind Sherlock

_Home-made detergent, merlot, L'air du Temps, sweat, polyisoprene latex-_

Sherlock pushed back from the table and tied his scarf, leaving the flat without saying a word.

He got a text from John on his way to Bart's. **Everything ok?**

Sherlock gripped the phone tightly, typing "need something from Bart's," before he shoved it back into his pocket.

* * *

_2 months later_

John walked in the door as Sherlock had finished typing out a text to Lestrade.

"Morning," John said, hanging up his jacket. "Anything good?" He motioned with his chin to the phone in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock looked up. John didn't have makeup smears on his face, but smelled like Kate's laundry detergent and perfume. He saw her without makeup.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at his phone, reading the details. He grinned.

Sherlock leaped out of his seat to get his coat, feeling bizarrely smug when he heard John quickly put his own back on.

* * *

_7 hours later_

"I don't have it." John's voice, calm.

"Yes you do."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the piece of pipe in his hand and flattened himself against the wall. _Wait, wait-_

A metal snicking sound. Sherlock ran blindly around the corner and slammed the iron pipe against the gunman's skull.

The gunman collapsed like a rag doll and Sherlock leaped over the body, ready with his pipe aimed at precisely the part of the temple that would-

A hand gently closed around his wrist and Sherlock looked up.

John's face was covered in blood.

Sherlock dropped the pipe and put his hands on the John's temples, pulling it close and turning it left, right, center, up.

John cleared his throat. "Not mine."

Sherlock pulled John's chin directly forward again, staring. The pattern was obvious. "Obvious." They could very faintly hear police sirens.

John smiled at him. "Have you set up a batting cage at the morgue, then? Couldn't have been your first crack at it." The sirens were louder now.

Sherlock's lips turned up.

"Shall we get a cab?" John asked, wiping the blood out of his eyes against a spray of blue lights.

"I can speak from experience they won't stop for you."

John laughed and Sherlock started giggling as well.

* * *

_One month later_

Sherlock paused outside of the 221B, listening carefully the muffled sounds coming from behind the door. He took one long inhale through gritted teeth, then let it out and opened it.

John was sprawled across the sofa with Kate. She was sitting on one of his housecoats.

"Hey Sherlock." John smiled drowsily.

Kate scrambled to sit upright, attempting to position herself more attractively, grinning at him. "Sorry we invaded the flat, mine's being painted."

Sherlock went into the kitchen, staring at the purse draped over his notepad on the counter.

He loudly pushed the chair back from the table and sat down, grinding his teeth against the giggling he heard in the living room.

* * *

_1 month later_

"Sherlock, before we start, the victim didn't do it. It's not an option."

Sherlock nodded, staring at the board and tapping his feet on the ground.

They were giving Cluedo another shot to keep Sherlock occupied.

John's phone started ringing, and he glanced at Sherlock who gave a slight nod.

"Hey," John murmured, the stairs creaking as he walked up into his room. Sherlock watched go and looked down at the board again.

"I know, me too." John had left his door open and voice carried downstairs.

Sherlock started tapping his hands on his legs.

"So you'll be back, Friday?"

Sherlock opened and closed his fist on top of his knee.

"Love you, too."

Sherlock stopped, fist clenched. He looked at the wall _love you, too_ then hopped off the couch.

He walked until he saw a shop clerk unaware of his arrangement with that particular store.

He didn't wait until he was outside before he tore the paper and plastic off of the cigarette box, pounding the top against the heel of his hand as he stepped out onto the street.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: The story earns its M rating in this chapter. If you prefer not to read explicit sex, abandon ship.

* * *

_1 month later_

Sherlock carefully held his hands up, eyes darting up the three dark floors visible from his spot in the atrium of the library. Nothing he could use. Nothing.

A thrill of terror went through him as he looked back at the man in front of him. The man stepped closer pressed the barrel of his gun against Sherlock's forehead.

A loud explosion rang out in the darkness and the man fell, screaming and contorting his body to put his hands against the newly-opened hole in his shoulder.

Sherlock kicked the gun away and scooped it up, pointing it down at him. Someone pounded down the spiral stairs across the room and Sherlock saw the silhouette of a small man approaching quickly.

"You're a sodding idiot," John seethed when he'd arrived at Sherlock's side, keeping his eyes and his gun trained on the whimpering man on the ground.

"You're a crack shot," Sherlock murmured without looking away from the man.

"Yeah, I bloody need to be, or you'd be riddled with bullet holes by now."

Sherlock's face twisted.

"Say that you were wrong to go by yourself." John's mouth was a thin white line.

Sherlock adjusted his grip on the gun. "Oh please-"

"Say it."

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "I was wrong." Tedious. "Thank you for the well-timed fire support," he added, hoping to close the subject.

"You're an arrogant sod. Figure that out sooner next time." The ferocity in John's voice startled Sherlock.

_"You're an idiot." _Thirty-year-old Mycroft's fingers crushing Sherlock's shoulders, the corner of the small plastic bag he'd found in Sherlock's pocket cutting into his back.

Slippery hands closed around Sherlock's ankle and he jumped backwards, nearly falling. John kicked the man in the ribs and gave Sherlock one more vicious look before pointing his Browning down at the gunman again.

* * *

They rode in silence back to the flat, and John left for Kate's almost immediately, without a word to Sherlock, slamming the door when he left.

Sherlock smoked a pack of cigarettes one by one on the couch, his hand hanging off with nothing underneath to catch the ash.

He wondered if Kate ever infuriated John.

* * *

_3 months later_

As per Mycroft's most recent visit, Sherlock typed "enquiry MOD leak" and Google suggested a number of previously searched phrases. "engagement rings london" was one of them.

The room slowly turned over on its side and Sherlock's neck prickled with itchy, white-hot heat.

John's bedroom door creaked open and Sherlock closed the laptop, looking down at his phone as John crossed the living room in a towel. Sherlock's eyes flickered over him as he passed. _No shaving nicks on his face._ John grabbed a pressed shirt and trousers that were hanging in the closet and walked back upstairs.

Sherlock looked at the closed laptop again, then walked into the kitchen and poured himself three fingers of scotch, swallowing it all and then immediately pouring himself another glass to take back to the couch.

When only the faintest natural light remained in the living room John walked downstairs and shrugged on his coat. Sherlock hadn't turned on the lights.

"'Date night at the curry house,'" Sherlock said to his glass as John yelped in surprise.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered, grabbing his keys off the kitchen table. "Are you working some mould thing that can't stand the light?"

Sherlock ignored him. "How is Kate?" He asked, over-emphasizing the "t" in her name.

John didn't answer for a moment. "She's fine," he said, keeping his voice even. He walked through the living room towards the door.

Sherlock got up off the couch.

"Why do you insist on pursuing entanglements that are statistically likely to end in an emotionally and financially destabilizing situations?" He was standing directly behind John at the door.

John's shoulders tightened. "Love. Affection. Knowing someone is totally gone on you." There was some acid in his voice. "Dull reasons."

Sherlock's mouth turned up. "All-consuming love does manage to be dull despite being a rather unstable chemical reaction." Sherlock stared at the back of John's head without moving. "I imagine she's told you she was married once before."

John froze. He opened the door without answering Sherlock's implied question.

Sherlock closed it. "She didn't, did she?"

John's fists clenched by his sides.

Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Perhaps the second time's a charm-"

John whirled around and slammed him up against the door in one motion.

"You're such a prick." John's knuckles were white where they fisted Sherlock's t-shirt and housecoat. "You're awful to the very few people who bother to try to be your friend." He spoke through clenched teeth, hitting Sherlock against the door on the last word. "Why do you keep punishing the people who like you? Why-"

John continued talking but Sherlock heard none of it. He could see the skin stretched over John's cheekbone almost as clearly as he could in his ear hat dream. Sherlock gripped John's upper arms and pulled him closer, until their noses nearly touched. John went completely still.

The muscles of John's throat moved under his skin as he swallowed and Sherlock's mouth parted. He smashed his lips against John's thin, chapped ones, readjusting until they felt soft. Warm.

"Sherlock," John murmured against his mouth. Sherlock broke the kiss and pressed his forehead hard against John's, pressing his fingers underneath John's chin. His pulse throbbed.

Sherlock broke away from him and yanked John across the living room, into the hall and then into his dim bedroom.

He shut the door and untucked John's shirt, running his hands over the skin of John's stomach, hips. _Appendix out. Cut by barbed wire._

He unbuttoned John's shirt as John pulled Sherlock's over his head. After their trousers were off, John kissed him and dug his fingers into his waistband of Sherlock's boxers. Sherlock froze against him.

John's arm tightened around his back as his fist closed around Sherlock's cock, thumb running hesitantly on the underside.

Icy-hot numbness spread through the edges of Sherlock's hands and his ears and his mouth parted against John's. His tight grip on his surroundings was loosening, disorienting him.

John's hand moved gently over him and Sherlock shut his eyes. Everything was too close and too loud.

John's grip firmed up around him and his hand sped up, twisting a little at the end of each stroke. John's prick was poking his thigh. Sherlock ran his hand over it and John hiccuped against his mouth, groaning. He grabbed it more confidently and John shuddered.

Sherlock pushed him back, leaving the room for a moment. When he returned, John was leaning against the wall with his head tilted backwards, breathing shallowly. Sherlock put a little pot of Vaseline in his palm and closed John's fingers around it.

After a moment John's fingers tightened around it, and he looked at Sherlock's face in the dark. Sherlock tugged on his wrist.

John grunted and pulled Sherlock's underwear down as well as his own, pushing Sherlock backwards until the backs of his knees bumped against the mattress.

Sherlock sat down, awkwardly maneuvering himself on his back until he was in the center of bed before he turned over onto his stomach, face down on the pillow. His heartbeat was in his ears.

The foot of the bed dipped as John crawled behind him, hands gripping Sherlock's hips and pulling them gently upwards.

Sherlock kept his face pressed into a pillow. Blood pooled in his cheeks. Something hard poked around Sherlock's entrance, sobering him.

John's moist, shaky hand ran up and down Sherlock's lower back as the pressure against Sherlock increased, until he could John's fingers push inside of him. Sherlock tensed.

John reached underneath him and weakly rubbed his cock for a few moments before Sherlock felt a third finger pushing into him as well. He grunted, and felt John's lips pressing gently onto his spine as his fingers pushed farther in. Sherlock bit down the inside of his arm to keep his teeth from chattering. After a few moments, Sherlock pushed his hands away.

"You want to stop?" John whispered, panicked and already pulling back. Sherlock shook his head jerkily and crawled backwards until he felt John's cock poking the back of his thigh.

John exhaled loudly and the mattress shifted under Sherlock's knees once again as John maneuvered behind him. Sherlock heard muted slicking sounds and swallowed.

One of John's greasy hands gripped Sherlock's hip tight as the blunt head of John's cock nudged against him, his ankles brushing against Sherlock's.

The absurdity of their situation pierced Sherlock's consciousness like an iron arrow. John was about to put his penis inside of him. Fuck him. Like a dumb animal.

John pushed forward and Sherlock's thoughts shifted again, turning to blind panic at pressure against his entrance. When the head of his cock popped inside of Sherlock, Sherlock whimpered and arched from the pain, humiliated and furious.

John rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's tense, twitching back. "Jesus I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" he whispered, and didn't move. Sherlock bit down on his hand until the pain subsided.

The muscles in Sherlock's back softened under John's hand, and he pushed his hips backwards just slightly. John pushed gently forward again and Sherlock grunted, though the pain wasn't nearly so sharp this time.

John continued inching into him until his pubic hair rested against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock let out a long breath.

John exhaled and folded himself over Sherlock until his cheek pressed against Sherlock's shoulder and his slippery hand covered Sherlock's on the pillow. Sherlock gripped John's fingers tightly and leaned his head back until he could feel John's head. John opened his mouth against Sherlock's shoulder, letting out a shaking breath.

"Sherlock," John whispered into the back of his head. _Sherlock_. The sound of his own name on John's mouth jolted him. Sherlock's mouth parted and he whimpered, hips twitching against John's groin. Every movement reminded Sherlock that John had stuffed himself inside. Was fucking him.

This fact overwhelmed his awareness, suffocating all other conscious thought.

He arched his back, trying to press his back against John's chest as John's hand ran jerkily up and down Sherlock's chest and stomach possessively. Roughly.

_I wanted this so much._

John rubbed his face against Sherlock's back as his arm tightly encircled Sherlock's waist, pulling him hard against his own body. John's choked, soft moans against the back of his neck echoed in his chest. In his guts.

John gripped Sherlock's hips hard and hoisted himself upright, hands remaining in place whenever his back was straight. Sherlock bit his lip as John pulled out and pushed back in slowly. After a moment he repeated it.

John pumped him gently, rhythmically, unbearably close to him. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face into the pillow, wanting to hide.

John leaned over Sherlock again and pulled on Sherlock's right wrist until he allowed John to lift it and put it over his own cock. Sherlock exhaled sharply and gripped it tight, pushing upright onto his left hand for a better angle. He felt the sharp coiling in his groin begin as he rocked back onto John's cock experimentally once, twice.

John half-moaned half-exhaled and pushed into him faster. Once they hit a rhythm an obscene smacking sound filled the room. Sherlock could hardly stand it; he pushed himself onto John frantically, utterly consumed.

One especially hard thrust jolted Sherlock forward and he barely caught himself from falling on his face. He gripped the headboard for balance, pulling himself halfway upright with his left hand as his right hand jerked himself.

John grunted loudly and his hands moved to tightly encircle Sherlock's waist. His strokes were becoming erratic.

"Are you close," John whispered harshly into his back. "I can't, I'm going to-"

"Yes," Sherlock choked out. John laid his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder and pushed once, twice, then moaned loudly in Sherlock's ear. His fingers dug into his hips, firmly impaling Sherlock over his cock as he came.

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a groan and a hiccup as he jerked himself, nearly jumping when he felt John's hand closed over his. With a loud, shocked noise he came over their joined hands, gripping the headboard hard enough to hurt his fingers.

They remained frozen in the same position even after Sherlock stopped. John's chin was over his shoulder and Sherlock could feel John's breath in his ear, his ribs expanding against Sherlock's back.

John shifted on top of him and slipped out before flopping onto his back beside Sherlock, chest still heaving. Something warm oozed out of Sherlock and trailed down the inside of his thigh. Disorientation washed over Sherlock once again.

_You've done something incredibly foolish. Unbelievably so._

Sherlock climbed out of bed in a daze without another glance at John and cleaned himself off in the bathroom.

When he returned John's eyes were closed and his hand was over his head. Sherlock laid down next to him and closed his eyes, chest so heavy he could barely breathe.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes to a dark room, the mattress slanting on the right side. He turned his head quietly. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and hands covering up his face.

_He regrets this. _


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched him without moving until John took a deep breath and dropped his hands to his knees. His silhouette rose.

Sherlock shut his eyes again, the floorboards squeaking as John tiptoed around the room picking up his clothes. When the door clicked shut, Sherlock opened his eyes in the dark, waiting until he heard the front door of of the flat close before he got out of bed and shrugged on his housecoat.

He turned on the light in the kitchen and grabbed two small bottles out of the refrigerator, settling himself in front of his microscope and scraping a tiny bit of the sediment from the bottle onto a slide.

_He wouldn't wake anyone up to talk to him. Probably walking. He's composing what he'll say to Kate-_

Something slid over Sherlock's thumb. He looked down, pursing his lips as he placed the now-ruined slide onto the table. He repeated the procedure and positioned pipette over the new slide, but a tremble in his left arm made holding it still impossible. He dropped the it onto the table and shook his arm viciously, trying to work out the tightness

_from holding yourself up while John fucked you_

In one motion Sherlock swept everything off the table and banged his elbows down, fists burying in his hair.

* * *

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch when John returned to 221B later that afternoon.

He moved awkwardly through the flat for a few moments before he wandered back into the living room. Sherlock's eyes went to his shoes. _Regent's Park._

"Listen, Sherlock-" John said quietly.

Sherlock lazily held up his hand. "This requires no discussion whatsoever, don't you think?" He turned his eyes up to John's.

John stared at him, blinking. "Fine."

Sherlock felt weight on his chest again.

"I regret that there is one thing we have to talk about, through." There was an edge in John's voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Have you been tested recently?"

Sherlock kept his face neutral, but his pulse tripled. "No."

"When's the last time you were?"

"Never."

"Never?" John repeated.

Sherlock said nothing, staring at the end of the couch.

John rubbed the back of his neck. "When's the last time you had sex?"

"You're assuming there was a last time." A ringing in Sherlock's ears nearly drowned out his own voice as well as John's.

"Excuse me, I was making making my own deduction."

"Yes, and as usual," Sherlock heard himself say, "it's wrong."

John's face went blank, slack. Sherlock felt lightheaded

"You're lying."

Sherlock said nothing.

"You're thirty-four years old, it's impossible." There was a note of panic in his voice.

Sherlock smiled faintly, looking down at his bare feet. "I can think of quite a few of our associates who would find this quite easy to believe." He glanced at John. "Also, I have it on good authority that no one can tolerate me, and that I punish anyone who tries."

"But..." John swallowed and ran a hand over his face. "That's...none of that.." he exhaled loudly. "Jesus," he said, cupping his hand over his mouth before the same hand covered his eyes.

Sherlock watched his entire progression without saying a word.

When John looked directly at Sherlock again, his mouth was a thin white line.

Sherlock felt the sickening flutter of being caught off-guard. _He's furious._

"Did you wanted to prove you were right about that photo on my computer? Well congratulations-"

"No."

"Then why would you give me the rope to hang the only relationship I've had since I've met you that has not been an utter catastrophe?"

He meant to sound angry, but a note of pleading had crept into John's voice. "You weren't overcome with lust, if you can go thirty-four years without it. So why?"

Sherlock swallowed and looked at the ceiling again.

John strode over to the couch kneeled in front of Sherlock, still sprawled lengthwise.

"Tell me."

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, silent.

John grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him upright until his face was inches from Sherlock's. "Tell me," he said, his voice rough and uneven. "Why."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over the bags under his eyes, his thin lips, his ears. The shape of his eyes _half-empty drawers_, dull reasons, _love you, too, kate, love you love-_

"I was finally bored enough."

John's s grip on Sherlock's shoulders went slack and he stared at him, dumbfounded. Sherlock stared back.

John made a noise of disgust and stood up, slamming the door on his way out of the flat.

The mug John had sipped from yesterday was still sitting on the living room table. Sherlock felt ill.

* * *

_One week later_

Sherlock leaned against a wall and looking down at his phone, eyes flicking periodically towards the entrance of an apartment building about a block away. At 8am sharp John emerged dressed for the surgery.

John walked swiftly towards Sherlock's spot on the sidewalk, but Sherlock crossed the street long before John would notice him.

* * *

_Two weeks later._

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his hand. Lestrade.

Sherlock pressed the ignore button, looking again towards the door of Kate's building.

* * *

_Three weeks later._

Sherlock sat on the couch, chin resting on his hands as he stared at the Gmail login screen.

His hands hovered over the keys as he stared at the wall, murmuring to himself before he typed a password. He pressed the Login button and the inbox appeared. Harry's birthday, odd choice.

He ignored the most recent emails typed Kate's name into the search box, revealing a list of hundreds.

"Do you have time for..." "This conference is BORING..." "Do you want to go shopping today or tommorrow?" "Went to the lingerie section at Selfridges ;D" "Miss you so much"

He clicked on the search box and typed "sorry" into the sent mail search. "I'm sorry," dated about a week after- He clicked on it, skimming the contents. "I'm sorry" "I know I don't have any right to ask you to forgive me" "not good for me" "not speaking anymore" "I love you"

He blinked at it a few times before carefully shutting his computer putting it next to him on the couch. He leaned his chin on his folded hands again, staring at the wall.

His phone rang and he nearly snapped his neck to look at the screen. Lestrade. Good. He took two deep inhales and pressed answer, but Lestrade had already hung up.

Sherlock viciously kicked over the coffee table and fell back onto the couch.

* * *

_Five weeks later_

Sherlock eyes scanned the neighbors houses, looking for open curtains, windows. On the call pad he dialed the unit with the new tenant, frantically advising her of his lost keys.

One he was inside the building he took the elevator to Kate's floor and stood outside of her unit, looking left and right before sliding his credit card into the lock. The door opened and he walked inside.

One of John's jackets on the coat hanger in the living room, a book of his on the living room table. He walked out of the living into the hallway. The first door on his left was a bathroom. It was still a little humid from John's shower; the scent of his shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant lingered. Two toothbrushes sat in the holder by the sink. He looked at them, picking up the one on the right side for a moment and holding it in his hands before putting it down.

Sherlock looked outside of the bathroom down the hall, to the room whose door was cracked, most certainly a bedroom. The floorboards creaked as he walked down the hall until he was directly in front of it.

He pushed the door gently open. John's laptop on top of a shirt on a desk. One of John's jackets hanging over the corner of the chair. An unmade bed. John's deodorant. Sweat. Semen.

_John's breath in his ear, his hair tickling Sherlock's shoulder. The hair of his arms brushing against Sherlock's stomach as he squeezed him tight around his middle._

He closed his eyes.

_Kate on her back and John kneeling between her legs, pushing her knees apart-_

Sherlock left.

* * *

Sherlock watched from a distance as a seventeen-year-old university student emerged from the front door of large building, looking quickly both ways before walking down the sidewalk towards Sherlock. Four people had walk in and out of that building over the past hour, none staying longer than fifteen minutes, all dressed reasonably well.

When the student was within five hundred meters of him he threw a piece of metal behind his back into the street. The student startled and looked towards noise, his hand touching the left inside pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock pushed off the wall and walked towards him at a brisk pace. He threw coin into the street whenever ten meters separated him and the student. The student's head whipped towards the street again and he and Sherlock collided, knocking the student nearly onto his back.

"Oh pardon me," Sherlock said, grasping the student's left arm roughly and pulling him upright. "On my mobile."

The student's white face nodded once at him before he put his head down and walked quickly on.

Sherlock kept walking in the opposite direction and pocketed a small plastic sandwich bag.


	7. Chapter 7

The small bag of white powder sat on the living room table. Sherlock stared at it, chin resting on top his folded hands.

He opened it, putting it under his nose before he licked a finger and rubbed it against the dusty inside. He stuck his finger past his lips, rubbing it onto his gums. His gums went numb and the lights sharpened. His pulse throbbed as he pulled out his house keys, dipping one into the bag and carefully pulling out a little hill of white powder.

The room lightened suddenly as clouds covering the sun disappeared, afternoon light spilling in through the windows. Sherlock watched dust particles float in the beams of light.

He frowned when his gaze drifted over the table next to the armchair closest to the kitchen. No dust on the edge closest to the arm chair. Sherlock never sat there; it tended to accumulate thick layers. A small patch on the rug was also missing dust.

John had been writing.

His pinky brushed against metal and he looked down. The little white pile was still at the end of his house key. With a quick breath he blew the cocaine towards beams of light and leaped off the couch to put the bag underneath the skull.

* * *

Sherlock thumbed through the pages of his old chemistry book in the living room as Mrs. Hudson piddled around, occasionally speaking to him though Sherlock didn't respond.

When he heard her footsteps on the stairs he stopped and looked up. Eventually she descended them, a handful of bedclothes covering her face.

Sherlock slammed the book shut. "Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes, dear."

"Where are you doing with those?"

"The wash, Sherlock." She said, pulling her keys out of her apron pocket. "I realized it'd been ages since John hadn't left his sheets for me-"

"Don't."

"Don't what, dear?"

"John doesn't want the washed." Sherlock said, gripping the arm of the couch tight.

Mrs. Hudson looked over at him through white pile in her arms. "What for?" She asked patiently.

Sherlock waved his hand in frustration. "I'm not his secretary."

She sighed. "Sherlock I wished you'd told me before I went up those bloody stairs, now I'll have to go again, it hurts my hip you know-"

"I'll take them," Sherlock said, opening his book again. "Just drop them."

He heard fabric rustle. "Alright, we'll do you have any-"

"No."

Mrs. Hudson was quiet for a moment. "You know I don't think I've seen John, why it's been weeks. Oh and he has that lovely girlfriend, I'd forgotten I like her so much better than his last one-"

Her voice faded to Sherlock until he realized she was no longer there. He saw the pile next to the door and turned back towards his book, turning the next page.

When he walked into the kitchen to get another coffee he paused, turning around and walked towards the small white heap until the tips of his toes brushed against the fabric.

He leaned over and picked it up, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before ascending the stairs to John's room.

He walked in, turning on the overhead light and looking at the bare mattress. He walked across the creaking boards and dropped the pile onto the center of the bed, staring at them.

He ran his finger over the snooze button radio alarm clock. Thick layer of dust.

Sherlock's throat bobbed and he looked at the pile again, then leaned over the bed, bending at the waist until the pillowcase on top touched his nose. John's vile shampoo. Oil trapping the smells of everywhere he'd been.

Sherlock let his knees bend and crawled onto the bed, hearing the familiar squeaking of old springs as he curled over the pile, gripping it tightly and pressing his cheek into the top.

* * *

"Good evening, little brother."

"Was until I answered the door," Sherlock said, leaving Mycroft standing in the threshold while he retrieved his violin from the chair.

Mycroft walked in, surveying the living room. Sherlock had already seated himself.

"Why must you turn every abode into a hovel?" Mycroft asked, nose wrinkling.

"Why must you turn every good day into a bad one."

Mycroft ignored him and sat down across from him, back ramrod straight. He shifted slightly in his chair and Sherlock realized with amusement that Mycroft was nervous.

His astonishment grew when Mycroft dug into his pocket and produced a cigarette case and a match and lit a cigarette.

"This behavior is unsustainable," Mycroft said after his first exhale.

Sherlock opened but Mycroft lightly raised a hand. They stared at each other; Sherlock had stopped playing. He imagined how Mycroft's head would snap backwards if he hit him right under his left canine. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock looked away and resumed playing, murderous.

Something poked his hand. Mycroft was holding a cigarette out for him.

Sherlock stared at it for a moment before putting his violin down. A flame appeared at the end of his nose before he put his hand in his coat pocket for his lighter.

He took a drag and exhaled, at the last minute blowing it away from Mycroft.

Mycroft took another short drag and looked down, frowning before he looked out the window. "Dull specimen, isn't she?"

Sherlock grit his teeth. "To which of your many keepers are you referring?"

"Won't last of course."

Sherlock sighed. "I forget that you must be used to speaking without anyone listening to you."

Mycroft turned his bland, hard gaze directly on Sherlock. "Cowardice doesn't suit you. Either forget about Dr. Watson or indulge your sentiment."

Sherlock's fingers clawed the end of the chair. He hated Mycroft, he _hated_ him- "Get out, Mycroft."

Mycroft tapped out his cigarette in the ashtray that he no doubt recognized and stood up, gripping his umbrella tightly. He looked down at Sherlock, shifting on his feet.

"A certain bluntness is advised in your dealings with him," Mycroft said, as though he were describing an unpleasant medical procedure. He turned in his umbrella handle in his hand. "Though excessive delicacy was never a problem of yours." Mycroft paused, looked down before walking towards the door.

Sherlock stood up and picked up his violin again, gripping it tightly as he played, staring at the bullet holes in the smiley face on his wall. He heard Mycroft pause in front of the mantle on his way out.

"Idiocy, however." Sherlock knew he was looking at the skull. Through it. "You always excelled at that." Mycroft's voice was harsh and rough.

_Mycroft and Sherlock sitting side by side in a taxi. Sherlock's wrists throb from yanking them against the handcuffs. He begins crying for the first time in ten years. A glass of water is sitting on Sherlock's night stand the next morning when he wakes up with a nearly unbearable hangover. He overhears Mycroft explaining to their mother that Sherlock feels flu-ish._

Sherlock was staring out the window. He'd stopped playing again. "Take it."

He heard the floorboards squeak as Mycroft turned around to look at him but Sherlock didn't look back. The skull clicked against the mantle before Mycroft left.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock paced back and forth in the living room, gripping his hair tight. He stopped in front of the wall and shouted as loud as he could; until his throat rattled. Everything on his website was dull. Lestrade hadn't phoned him in weeks. Sherlock ignored the vague sounds of Mrs. Hudson yelling (at him, tedious) and opened the paper in an act of desperation.

"Scotland Yard: 'You're Not Keeping Us Safe!'" Sherlock skimmed the article looking for details of heinous crimes, but his eyes stopped over "personnel shakeups." He looked to the side for a moment, folding his lips over his teeth. Shakeups.

He sighed and threw the newspaper across the room, flopping on the couch and looking up the ceiling. He could still hear Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

The Union Jack pillow slowly rotated in midair as he tossed it up and down over his his face, pushing it higher and higher. When a corner of it brushed the ceiling he punched it across the room and knocked over a glass, which shattered in rather spectacular fashion all over the floor. He paused for half a second, waiting for John's scolding out of habit, but it didn't come, of course.

_Probably wouldn't come again, ever._

The thought dropped like a lead weight on his chest.

He pulled out his mobile, and, for once, phoned Lestrade.

Lestrade sounded exhausted. "Sherlock I'm busy, but nothing too weird recently, so probably nothing of interest to you-"

"You have no conception of what interests me."

"We'll you can come have a look, if you like, but let me repeat-" Sherlock hung up on him without hearing what he had to say, pulling his scarf and coat on before leaving.

* * *

"Really, you'll look at all of them?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and blinked. "I realize this would be quite an undertaking for anyone on your inept police force."

"I, ahm," Lestrade looked confused. "What's the occasion, anyway?"

"Consider yourself extremely fortunate that I find this the least annoying preoccupation at the moment."

"So where's, ah-"

Sherlock's fist clenched into a tight ball, but Lestrade didn't finish asking his question.

"Yes?" He asked through gritted teeth

"Oh, just thinking about your landlady Mrs. Hudson. How is she, rather." Lestrade did not look away but Sherlock could see him shifting in his seat under the desk.

"Still at Baker Street."

Lestrade cleared his throat and nodded, then handed Sherlock the stack of files on his desk.

Sherlock leaned over and accepted the heavy stack. "Thank you," he said before he could catch himself.

Lestrade's stared at him with an odd expression. "No. Thank you."

Sherlock solved them all within month.

It kept him away from the flat, at least.

* * *

_One month later_

Sherlock was frowning at a particularly baffling crime report (Anderson, of course) when he heard a familiar gait clomping up the stairs. His breath turned shallow.

The door opened and John walked through, stopping dead. He hadn't expected to see him. Sherlock waved a hand vaguely in John's direction and John inclined his head towards Sherlock, setting his mouth before walking upstairs. _More jumpers. The red one. Maybe the striped one, no no that's wrong, the oatmeal one._

When John walked downstairs he didn't come into the living room. He didn't even look at Sherlock. His hand was on the doorknob-

"Had any bad days at the surgery?"

John paused, then turned around. "If you're asking me if I've been offing my patients the answer is no," he said, keeping his expression neutral. They stared at each other. "Anything good recently?"

Sherlock wanted to lie. "No."

John glanced around the apartment. "You're working, though."

"Yes."

"And it's...not good?"

Sherlock wished he would have lied. "Not really."

"Then what are you doing?" John's brows furrowed.

"Bored."

"You usually stay around here draped in a bedsheet when you're bored."

Sherlock shrugged. "Bored with that, too."

John nodded at him, saying nothing in response. But he lingered at the door.

He was dying of boredom. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, in his shoulder, in his right knee, in the way his hips angled towards his room _What's it like to live with him? I'm never bored._ John hated being bored almost as much as Sherlock. She was achingly dull he could look at her and know every secret every insipid fear and hope she'd ever had. John withering away at her cheap flat watching idiotic telly and wishing he could open his book but she hated when he read when they watched shows together he preferred her in a group to alone he'd said I love you only after she did while he was fucking her and it had been far too long already what are you doing what are you _doing_ you belong here you're mine you're mine you're mine you're _mine_-

"Remember to eat " John said, and left.

When he heard the bottom door shut, Sherlock threw his mug across the room, watching it shatter against the wall.

* * *

_One month later_

Sherlock gazed out the window, violin under his chin and playing "O Holy Night" in an attempt to drown out the pheromone soaked drivel flying back and forth between Molly and Lestrade.

"Oh that's my favorite, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said behind him. "It reminds me of when me and my husband, you know, before the drugs-" Sherlock noticed two people walking down the street to 221B and stopped.

"Don't stop!" Mrs. Hudson cried. Sherlock resumed playing, the notes more clipped now.

The buzzer rang.

"Oh and there's John, wonderful." Mrs. Hudson was already quite tipsy.

John walked through the door, hugging Mrs. Hudson and putting a cheap bottle of wine into her arms, which she acted thrilled about. As he shook Lestrade's hand Kate hugged Mrs. Hudson, which annoyed him.

John looked towards Sherlock and Sherlock turned around again, staring out the window and resumed playing. He felt rooted his his spot.

Mrs. Hudson bustled up behind him and poked him repeatedly in the back of his head with something hard. Annoyed, he turned around and saw her on tiptoes with the antlers.

"Oh please, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson was saying. "Just for one song."

He opened his mouth to say no, but stopped when he spotted John out of the corner of his eye. His lips a thin line, he bent his head forward and Mrs. Hudson actually squealed with delight. His dignity withered as she attempted to adjust the headband, the teeth pulling at his hair. After another moment he straightened it on top of his head himself.

Without smiling, he began playing "Good King Wenceslaus," apparently another one of Mrs. Hudson's favorites. He could feel John looking directly at him again and turned around, the notes a little sharper than they were meant to be.

In the reflection of the window he saw Kate leaning into John on the couch, linking her arm with his and nuzzling her face into his shoulder. John turned around to look down at the top of her head. Sherlock stopped playing abruptly and put his violin on the table.

At Mrs. Hudson's protests he held up an arm. "Be back," he said, shrugging on his coat.

He walked into the sharp cold outside, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. The door opened and closed again upstairs and Sherlock considered walking around the corner, until he heard the first couple of footsteps.

The outside door opened and Lestrade was banging a box of cigarettes against the heel of his hand.

"Admirable resolve," Sherlock said, staring at a dented sign across the street and attempting to deduce the make and model of the car that hit it.

"Holidays are shit," Lestrade answered, and offered him the first one. Sherlock turned his head and was annoyed to be reminded of the antlers still perched on the top of it.

"I think about my wife on holidays, which also now makes me think about that damn P.E. teacher's naked arse on my couch." He shook his head, striking a lighter. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snatched the lighter out of his grasp.

Lestrade blew a stream was that half breath and half smoke into the cold air. He frowned. "I never thanked you properly, did I?"

"For what?" Sherlock said, annoyed that Lestrade was apparently keen to talk.

"For your help. Pretty sure you saved me from the musical chairs that occurred in the division." He paused. "I like my job. It's the only thing in my life that hasn't gone completely to shit, so ahm. Thank you."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

Lestrade rolled his lips over his teeth, opened his mouth, then closed it. "Sherlock-" he began.

"What?" Sherlock was still staring across the street, blowing long streams of smoke against the street light.

"Look if you ever, I don't know," Lestrade paused, "want to, er, talk-"

"Thanks," Sherlock cut in.

Lestrade rocked back on his heels once, then again. He meant to continue talking.

"Go proposition Molly," Sherlock snapped.

"What?" There was a note of terror in Lestrade's voice. "She doesn't fancy me, she fancies YOU-"

"Her infatuation is shallow, will fade once you've established yourself. Then you'll be the lucky recipient of her constant indelicate attention."

Lestrade said nothing in response, simply staring at him. Sherlock did not meet his gaze.

After a moment Lestrade cleared his throat. "Reckon you came out here to be alone for a minute." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw him carefully pull another cigarette out of the pack and hold it out for him. Their eyes met

Sherlock accepted it.

Horrifyingly, Lestrade's gaze was full of pity. Sherlock turned away, wanting to pummel his face into the back of his skull.

After the door closed again, Sherlock continued staring across the street, his mouth contorting itself as he stared at the dented sign. The hand holding the cigarette was beginning to shake.


	9. Chapter 9

"Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock hadn't heard John come into the apartment, only the yelp after John walked into the kitchen. He turned off his blow torch and stared at him through the glass of his heat mask, scanning his posture, his eyes, his feet, his shoulder, his mouth.

Sherlock pulled the mask up. "What's wrong?" He hadn't seen John in two weeks.

"Nothing," John muttered. He ran his hands through his hair. "Kate got a sodding DUI." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She's going to lose her job."

Sherlock nearly laughed out loud.

"Well she's going to lose it once it's official, but that'll be soon enough." John shifted on his feet. "I think she's secretly," he paused, "happy about it, or something. She hates London. She's from Suffolk and I know she wants to move back there, she's said it once-"

Sherlock knew all of this already.

"I can't move to sodding East Anglia-"

"So don't."

John shot him a poisonous glare. "Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Sherlock shrugged. A certain lightness, buoyancy even, had spread through in his chest into his limbs. Sentiment complicated John's situation, but ultimately, either the sentiment overwhelmed his desire to stay in London or it didn't. Clearly, at this moment, it didn't.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "Why am I even telling you, you're absolutely the worst person in the world to talk to about these things," John muttered.

Sherlock watched John's back as he left.

* * *

"I need a favor," Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the phone. "Are you incarcerated somewhere?"

"It's not related to me."

"Another secret lab that desperately needs tending to?"

Sherlock gripped the phone hard in his hand harder. "It involves a drunk driving arrest."

"How quaint." Mycroft sounded curious. "And you can't ask your Detective Inspector because you've only recently saved his job by the slimmest of margins," Mycroft mused.

Sherlock said nothing; his fingertips were white.

"What is this worth to you, little brother?"

"Oh, I'm sure you already have a price in mind." The words could have cut glass.

"Consider the sordid little matter settled. Anthea will be dropping a folder off for you shortly."

"Confirmation first. Katherine Wilson."

"I know."

Sherlock hung up without saying goodbye, falling backwards on the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

* * *

_One month later_

John had turned the corner onto Kate's block when a black car slowed next to him. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going, Anthea," he said to his reflection in the tinted window, and kept walking.

The window rolled down.

"Get in the car, John."

John started a little at Mycroft's voice, but continued walking. "Sod off, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "_Please_ get in the car."

John slowed down and turned to look at Mycroft, a tendril of fear creeping up his spine.

"What's he done?" John asked in a low voice. "Is he ok?"

Mycroft smiled.

John grabbed him through the window of the car before Mycroft could react. "Is he ok?" John asked tightly.

Mycroft stared at John with an odd expression. "There's no immediate danger, no. But don't let that discourage you."

John let go of his collar.

"I'll explain what I mean if you'll be so kind as to join me."

The door opened; John sighed, but ultimately climbed in. The car pulled away from the curb immediately after he shut the door.

Mycroft held tight to his umbrella, rubbing some pattern into the bottom of the car.

"Tell me, Dr. Watson," Mycroft focused on the movements of his umbrella. "Would you call my brother an altruistic person?"

John stared at him, blinking. "No."

"I agree. So what am I to make of his behavior recently?"

"What behavior?"

Mycroft's lip curled. "You're aware that Scotland Yard did a bit of internal reshuffling recently?"

"Yeah."

"You saw Sherlock working on rather, pedestrian matters, no doubt." He watched John's expression. "And low and behold, Detective Inspector Lestrade's job remained intact." Mycroft switched the umbrella to his other hand.

John smiled, annoyed. "I realize Sherlock doing anything nice for anyone else-"

"And how is Katherine's legal adventure progressing?"

John's mouth twisted, fists tightening into balls next to his knees. "Clearly you already know." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John continued, "Insufficient evidence, got thrown out."

"Did it. How convenient for her."

John's brows furrowed at him before he shook his head. "No, there's no way" He glanced at Mycroft, who raised his eyebrows slightly. "No," John said.

"Perhaps it was fairies."

John snorted and shook his head again. "He won't even call Lestrade to ask for a case when he's climbing the walls-"

"He could hardly ask that kind of favor from a man who only held onto his job by the skin of his teeth."

"Then who-" John stopped, turning sharply in Mycroft's direction again. "He asked _you_?"

Mycroft studied the handle of his umbrella. "Quite a windfall for me, actually."

John fell back against the seat.

"Performed some rather," Mycroft pursed his lips, "_challenging_ legwork in exchange for this little favor. I ought to buy you both a steak dinner."

John ignored him. He felt dazed. "Why would he do that?"

"It would appear," Mycroft said, turning the handle of his umbrella, "that he's desperately trying to get your attention."

John shook his head again. "You're wrong, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed dramatically. "It's rather hard to believe you ever assisted my brother in his investigations-"

"Shut up."

"Believe me, Dr. Watson, I'd rather," he snapped, staring out the window.

The car slowed down and John realized they were in front of Kate's flat again. Mycroft gripped the other man's arm in an iron vice as he leaned towards the door.

"Think about what I've said."


	10. Story has moved archives and is edited!

THIS STORY HAS MOVED TO ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN (ao3). The story title ("Apprehension") and my username ("causidicus") are the same. Be warned the story has been beta'd and Brit-picked, and certain plot elements have changed substantially, so I would advise reading from the beginning. I'm sorry that it's taken so long to update!


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